Bonjour! Today is our second day in Paris. While I’m off skipping around the Louvre and stuffing my face with macarons, I’ve asked my hilarious friend Süsk of Süsk and Banoo to share her honeymoon story. If you remember, Süsk sweetly made me a personalized guide to the 17th Arrondissement, which I have in my bag right now. The story she chose to share is absolutely hysterical. I’ll let her take it from here:
As I sit here with a scarf coiled around my head on a windy, grey Monday morning in London, Sicily seems a lifetime away. Hunched over my computer in two dressing gowns (truth!) and going through hundreds of photos on my hard drive of a tanned, glowing me romping in the nature of Italy’s Southern island, I am reminded just how wonderful a holiday can be. Throw in a few near-death experiences and Mafia run-ins, and you’re talking superawesome holiday times.
In 2009 Banoo and I headed to Sicily for our honeymoon. We avoided the tourist-y Northwestern coast and instead opted for a city clinging to the edge of a volcano named Taormina. From here we rented what was possibly the most ill-suited car ever for the 90 degree inclines that scaled the volcanic crag and masqueraded as roads, and headed out to explore this island that tectonic activity had thrust out of the sea thousands of years ago.
Or at least we tried to.